


you were driving circles

by surgicalstainless



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Music, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/pseuds/surgicalstainless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were on a freeway headed west, the sky just beginning to pale, when Steve awoke. "Where are we?" he asked.</p><p>Sam looked for handy road signs, but didn't see any. "West Virginia, I think."</p><p>Steve blinked. "Where are we going?"</p><p>Sam thought about that. Then he turned to catch Steve's eye, and couldn't help a smile. "Where do you want to go?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were driving circles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyhawke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/gifts).



> _*shows up five months late with a fic and a playlist*_  
>  This was supposed to be my pinch-hit for hollyhawke for the Sam/Steve Exchange. It, uh, took a bit longer than I expected. Sorry, love. Hope you like it anyway <3
> 
> Set pre- _Age of Ultron_. Beta-read as ever by the lovely [Amethystina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethystina/pseuds/Amethystina).

When Sam was a baby, his mother said, he would cry and cry and cry. Nothing and nobody could comfort little baby Sam, until someone thought to put him in a car. The minute the engine rumbled to life, he would quiet right on down. So it was that Sam spent much of his infancy on the road, staring wide-eyed at the world as some relative or other drove in aimless circles.

Sam's mother told that story so often it took on the pattern of gospel, the well-worn phrases soft with love and reuse. Sam was grown now, gone to war and back, and still... Every time she brought it up Sam smiled, and shook his head, changed the subject. That didn't mean it wasn't true.

—★—

The bloom of a fireball against his eyelids shook Sam awake, heart pounding.

Black. _Night_.

He lay still a moment longer, to get his bearings.

Washington, D.C. 2014. _Safe_.

The now-familiar dark of his bedroom stared back at him. No matter what he told himself now, there'd be no more sleep for a while. Sam sighed and threw the covers back.

He didn't bother turning the lights on in the kitchen, just shut his eyes against the glare of the fridge opening and reached blindly for the orange juice. He was lifting the bottle to his mouth when his brain finally paid attention to the shadowed shapes in the living room: something was out of place. There was a silhouette, an unmistakable profile just barely visible against the black —

"Steve?"

The shape started, turned. "Oh. Hey, Sam."

Sam put the juice down to lean against the counter. "Can't sleep?"

The shape gave a noncommittal shrug.

"I warned you about that couch, man," Sam joked, but Steve didn't respond. Sam paused. The supersoldier's posture put him in mind of the Lincoln Memorial down on the Mall — so grave, so cold, so still. Abruptly, Sam reached a decision.

When he emerged from his bedroom a little better dressed, Steve hadn't moved at all. Sam crossed into his line of sight, touched Steve lightly on the shoulder. "Come on," he said, and went for the closet by the door to pull on some shoes. Steve followed automatically, still lost in his own thoughts as he slid on a pair of running shoes, took the sweatshirt Sam gave him, hefted his shield in its black cloth bag. Sam's keys gave a gentle chime as he grabbed them out of the bowl, and the door made a satisfied _click_ as he locked it behind them.

—★—

Sam liked driving late at night. It was quiet and peaceful, few cars out on the roads. The world looked different under sodium lights. Prettier, maybe, or more possible. Sam cruised the empty streets and let his thoughts wander where they would.

Steve was asleep before they hit the city limits.

—★—

They were on a freeway headed west, the sky just beginning to pale, when Steve awoke.

He woke quietly, and sat blinking for a few moments. "Where are we?" he asked at last.

Sam looked for handy road signs, but didn't see any. "West Virginia, I think."

Steve blinked again. "Where are we going?"

Sam thought about that. Then he turned to catch Steve's eye, and couldn't help a smile. "Where do you want to go?"

—★—

They found a roadside McDonalds and bought three of everything on the breakfast menu. Hunched into a too-small booth, Steve drank orange juice from concentrate and did his best to destroy an order of hotcakes while _not_ destroying his plastic knife and fork. Sam sat across from him, sipped overbrewed coffee, and watched the traffic go by. The scenery was pretty, wherever they were. Lots of greenery. Lush.

"You want to just keep going west?" he said eventually.

Steve paused in opening the next box of hotcakes. "...Sure."

—★—

The sun had risen while they ate, and traffic was starting to pick up. Sam pulled into the fast lane and rummaged one-handed in the central console. "Aha!" he cried after a moment or two, and handed Steve a much-loved and battered iPod.

Steve held it in midair and raised his eyebrows.

"Don't pull that confused old man crap with me, Rogers, I know you have a smartphone. I _also_ know you have a list, so plug that in and let's get started on your musical education."

Steve mutely did as he was told. "What do you want me to play?"

"I don't know, man, hit shuffle and see what comes up. You like it, we can talk about it. You hate it, there's the skip button."

The first song that came up was Michael Jackson's "Beat It." Sam grinned widely and relaxed a little more into his seat.

—★—

Motown and the King of Pop got them all the way across the Ohio state line. Steve was smiling a little as Sam pulled into the truck stop. "Stretch your legs, get your blood moving, breathe the fresh diesel fumes," Sam told him as he began to refuel the SUV. "Then it's lunchtime."

Steve twisted back and forth a few times, bent to touch his toes, bounced on the spot — then stopped. "I'm not wearing socks," he frowned.

He looked so consternated Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Me either," he said. "Fortunately, we are at that great American institution, the truck stop. We can get lunch and socks."

Steve followed him inside, then paused in the doorway to take it all in. This truck stop had an attached fast-food restaurant, a small video game arcade, and what was essentially a general store. Signs in the back pointed the way to restrooms and pay-per-use showers. 

Sam clapped Steve on the back and handed him a shopping basket. "Come on. It's time you learned about Road Trip Food."

—★—

"Why are there so many kinds of beef jerky?"

"I don't know either, man. Just grab a bunch. Oh, cool, this one's bison."

 

" _Dill pickle_ is a potato chip flavor?"

"...You know what? Sure."

 

"What flavor is 'Mountain Dew Voltage' supposed to be?"

"I have no idea. Grab me a bottle of Code Red, will you?"

 

"Hey Steve, you want double-stuf Oreos, chocolate or mint?"

"What happened to Hydrox? All I see anymore are these knock-offs."

"What? ...Okay, fine, all three."

 

"I found the socks. You want white, or white?"

"I like this shirt. I'm going to get it. Do you need a shirt, Sam?"

"No, thank you, I do not."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

—★—

When the sun hung low on the horizon Sam pulled off the freeway and took them to smaller, less-travelled highways. Johnny Cash was singing on the stereo, and the SUV's floors were littered with junk food wrappers and empty soda bottles. In the fading light, the rolling fields around them looked almost gilded, and shadows loomed ever larger along the berms.

A deer leaped gracefully across the road ahead of them, its eyes shining eerie yellow-green in their headlights.

"Would you look at that," Steve murmured. 

Johnny Cash wound down and the SUV lapsed into silence. Outside the bubble of their cabin, the darkness was complete — no vehicles passed by, no buildings lit the roadside.

In the passenger seat, Steve shifted and stretched. "Who knew sitting in a car all day could make you so tired?"

Sam huffed his agreement, but didn't feel a need to speak. The air between them was warm and still, a little stuffy. The SUV's tires hummed on the road, sent a subtle vibration through Sam's hands on the steering wheel and up through his feet on the floorboards. Ahead, a dim glow began to show itself over the hills: a town, an island of light in the endless pastures and fields.

It was almost too much, when they turned down Main Street and parked beneath a neon sign advertising " **air conditioning, HBO** , ~~no~~ **vacancy**." Sam squinted against the glare and winced at the chime on the swinging office door. 

In the parking lot, Steve listened to the cooling engine tick, watched moths immolate themselves on glowing tubes of light.

"Burned up with beauty," Steve said, only half to himself, and then Sam came back out and tossed him a room key.

—★—

The air conditioner did not work.

They opened the windows wide, and Sam and Steve each took a bed, lay crosswise on the cheap polyester counterpanes and took part in that great American ritual: flipping through the channels. There wasn't anything on, of course — there never is — but eventually they settled on the local PBS station. It was showing old episodes of _How It's Made_ , and Sam drifted off to the comforting whir of thousands of red crayons rolling down a conveyor belt.

Steve watched for a little while, the way Sam's face relaxed in his sleep, the way the television's light flickered over his cheekbones and pooled shadows over his eyes. He listened to the gentle puffs of Sam breathing, the faint whistle that was almost a snore. Steve lay back and matched his breaths to Sam's, in and out, in and out, in and —

 

Steve swam back up to consciousness to the clanking of pipes. "Wha?"

He was alone in the hotel room. The drapes were open, and searing bright sunlight cut through net curtains to set dust motes dancing. The clanking, Steve realized belatedly, had been the shower cutting off.

Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a cheap hotel towel wrapped low on his hips. "Morning, sleeping beauty," he teased, but his tone was affectionate. "You're lucky I left you any hot water."

"Big of you," Steve muttered, and swung his legs down to the floor.

"I know," Sam said, rummaging in the bags from the truck stop in search of underwear and socks. He tossed something at Steve. "Here. You can wear your new shirt today."

Steve caught it. "Okay," he said, still unsure why that made Sam smile so much. He left the shirt on the bed and padded into the tiny bathroom to investigate the shower.

—★—

"Sam," Steve called from the cramped tub/shower, "how am I supposed to wash my hair?"

"Bend down!" Sam hollered through the door.

Steve contorted until he could put his head under the spray. "Did we check into a hotel for little people by mistake?"

"Nope," Sam called back. "They're all like that."

Steve straightened from his crouch and hit his head on the showerhead. "Why?"

"You got me, man."

—★—

They hit a Waffle House on the way out of town, and Steve learned all about scattered, smothered, covered, capped, and chunked. The waitress, unimpressed, snapped her gum and looked askance at Steve's shirt.

Steve took first shift behind the wheel. By mutual agreement, they kept to the lesser highways, winding their way ever west, through a succession of small towns and never-ending farmland.

"President Eisenhower built the Interstate Highway System after World War II," Sam said suddenly, as the road took a sweeping curve and a railway line raced to meet it on an oblique angle. "He wanted a network of roads the military could use in case of an invasion. They built the big freeways, and a lot of the old, smaller highways fell into disuse. The freeways made it possible to drive past a place without ever driving _through_ it."

"I like the old highways," Steve said at last. "Just because they're outdated doesn't mean they're not useful."

Sam glanced over sharply, but Steve was just staring at the road ahead, his hands at ten and two.

"Yeah," Sam decided. "Me, too."

—★—

They got lunch at a tiny gas station that had analog fuel pumps and a motherly old woman who made them sandwiches to order.

"You sure you're gonna be able to eat all these?" she asked, frowning doubtfully at the pile of paper-wrapped food before them. 

Steve smiled at her. This wasn't the polished, patented Captain America smile, that had sold war bonds and anchored a chorus line. No, Sam thought, this smile had a hint of mischief, held charm and a little chagrin, but mostly it was just _sincere_. This must have been what Doctor Erskine and Agent Carter saw, Sam realized, and felt a little dizzy with it. Behind the sandwich counter, the old woman caught the full force of that smile and just _melted_. She threw in a chocolate chip cookie for each of them, and Steve thanked her very much.

"My pleasure," she said, rosy pink rising in her cheeks. "Have a nice day, now."

"We are," Steve told her. Sam could only agree.

—★—

Sam chuckled when they were safely on the road again. "You sure had that lady charmed."

"What? No," Steve shifted a little, uncomfortable. "She was just nice."

"She didn't look at me once," Sam retorted. "You worked your magic, and I might as well have not even been there."

Steve looked down, fiddled with the iPod. "Bucky was always the charmer, not me."

The Beatles slid gently into "Hey Jude."

"You think he's okay?" Steve asked, eyes still downcast.

"I don't know, man." Sam paused, looking for something else to offer. "He's a survivor."

"Yeah." Steve's smile was a little bitter, and he twisted the charging cord between his fingers.

"We'll find him," Sam said eventually.

Steve sat up straight, squared his shoulders. "Yes," he said, "we will."

The Beatles flowed into Billie Holiday faded into R.E.M. The road unspooled before them and they sped on down it, headed nowhere in particular.

—★—

One of the small magics of the road trip was that you could say anything, feel anything, and then, if you wanted, drop it beneath the rushing wheels and leave it behind.

The atmosphere in the SUV was oppressive, filled up with ghosts, but as the miles passed beneath them the air became easier to breathe. Outside, sun shone brightly on endless fields of green things growing. Shirley Bassey on the stereo sang "The Nearness of You," and Steve tilted his head in surprise. 

"I know this one," he said, and began quietly to sing along.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me  
That thrills and delights me, oh no_

Steve's voice was low and sweet, Sam discovered. Plush pink lips formed around half-forgotten lyrics, and as he sang his gaze turned inward, as if unsure where the memory might lead him. Gold eyelashes dipped, leaving faraway eyes half-lidded. Sam lost his breath, a little, and forced his attention back to the road.

_It's just the nearness of you._

Steve shook his head and looked over to Sam with an angelic smile. He sang the next few lines _to_ Sam:

_It isn't your sweet conversation_  
_That brings this sensation, oh no  
It's just the nearness of you._

Sam kept his focus doggedly on the road ahead, but he could feel the flush rising across his cheekbones. Steve must have seen, too, because his smile turned just a little wicked — but he only sat back in his seat and sang the rest with great pleasure to the passing scenery.

By the time the last chords faded away Sam could have sworn the sun had just come out.

—★—

**MELONS, CORN, FRESH-CUT FLOWERS** , the hand-painted sign said. It hung above a makeshift wooden roadside stall heavily laden with produce. Several cars had pulled to the side of the road to shop, and it looked like the sellers were doing a brisk trade. Sam slowed the SUV to get a better view.

"Let's stop," said Steve, seized by the same impulse.

"Yeah," Sam said, and pulled off the highway in a cloud of dust. 

The stall held an embarrassment of riches. Every table was piled high with damp green ears of corn — "picked fresh this morning," the smiling woman with the cashbox assured him — or bunches of flowers in a cacophony of colors. Large wooden bins held sweetly fragrant melons, with one or two cut open for the curious to try. Sam breathed deep and let the tension of the road seep out of him. Nearby, Steve shoved his hands in his pockets and complimented a little girl on her bouquet. Sam had no idea where they were, but they were in the right place.

Steve picked out a watermelon almost too big for him to comfortably hold. 

"No way we can eat all that," Sam told him, though the protest was mostly for form's sake. Steve only smiled.

Sam wanted very much to buy a half-dozen ears of corn. He and Steve brainstormed, but they couldn't figure out a way to cook them with the supplies they had on hand. Sam regretfully ran his fingers through the cool cornsilk and turned away.

"Next time," Steve said, and he sounded so sure.

Besides the watermelon, they came away with a couple of loaves of homemade bread and a jar of strawberry preserves. Sam hadn't been able to resist a few of the deep scarlet tomatoes, so different from the anemic specimens in the stores. 

"We can stop at the next town, pick up some cheese and salami, make a meal of it," he suggested as they stowed their purchases away.

Steve slid behind the wheel and started the engine. "Sounds like a plan," he said, and pulled them onto the road again.

—★—

The afternoon stretched out into golden-orange evening, bringing a happy lassitude upon the countryside. Steve drove and Sam daydreamed, and the iPod serenaded them on shuffle.

A syncopated guitar riff jerked Sam from his meditations. He reached for the "skip" button, but the drums had already kicked in. It was too late, Sam felt, and so he sat frozen and tense as Kurt Cobain slurred his way through "Smells Like Teen Spirit." 

_With the lights out  
It's less dangerous_

Furious guitars hooked Sam beneath the breastbone and dragged him under, left him gasping.

_A denial, a denial, a denial..._

The dying chord let Sam move again, and he fumbled for the "pause" button, desperately grateful for the silence. He closed his eyes and concentrated on inhaling and exhaling, willed his heartbeat to slow and his blood to stop hammering in his veins.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam saw Steve watching carefully, concern pinched into the corners of his mouth.

"Riley had this playlist," Sam began.

"Whenever we had a hard day, or a bad call, some patient we couldn't help, something we couldn't walk away from... Riley had this playlist, and he'd put it on real loud and we'd do wind sprints or push-ups or lift weights until we threw up." Steve made a face, and Sam huffed wry amusement. "It sucked, but it helped. I used to give him shit about his 'angry white guy music.' But it... helped."

Sam blinked hard against the memory. "That's the first time I've been able to listen to that song since."

Steve lifted a hand from the wheel and set it on Sam's knee. He didn't pat, or squeeze, just — rested it there. His hand was warm, and the heat filtered through Sam's jeans and, slowly, into his bones.

When it became clear Sam wasn't going to say more, Steve took a breath.

"Bucky used to crack jokes."

Sam watched Steve navigate a slight curve one-handed.

"When I had a bad day — and I had lots of 'em, before —" he ducked his chin as if to indicate _all this_ , "Bucky would crack jokes. _Bad_ ones. He'd get on a tear and I'd go from scowling to groaning to laughing in about five minutes flat. Couple times he made me laugh so hard I got a coughing fit," Steve grinned at the memory, "which only made me worse. He could make a pun out of just about anything."

Sam smiled. "I'd like to hear him do that some day."

"Yeah," said Steve, and he was smiling too. "So would I."

He left his hand there on Sam's knee, and after a while Sam thought "what the hell," and covered it with his own. Old hurts faded, old ghosts lay quiet. Dusk silvered gently into night.

—★—

They passed through several sleeping towns, but neither Sam nor Steve felt any inclination to stop. There was something in the air, something fragile, and the real world seemed too graceless to bear just then. They kept on.

It was nearing midnight when Steve pulled over to a fallow field at the edge of the road. The space was almost park-like, with its mown grass and a low-bent copse of trees. He turned the engine off and they both listened for a moment to the crickets and a far-off cow mooing.

"It's a nice night," Steve said.

"Pretty sure we've both camped out in worse," Sam agreed.

Sam found his old wool blanket under the backseat, and they made a basic picnic of their purchases from the farm stall and some supplemental provisions. The food was _good_ in a way that few things are. Sam flicked a watermelon seed at Steve, who grinned and spat one back.

"Gross, man," Sam complained, no heat to his words.

They finished their meal in comfortable silence. The warm summer night made its own melodies around them.

Finally, Steve leaned back on his hands and stared at the sky. Out in the countryside there wasn't much light pollution, and the stars spilled across the heavens in unimaginable plenitude. They glittered, distant and serene.

"Look at that, Sam," Steve breathed. "Did you ever see such a thing?"

Sam had seen desert skies in Arizona and Afghanistan, skies so filled with stars they lit the night. He looked over instead of up, and there was Steve, his profile limned in moonlight, his eyes wide and his breath caught in wonderment.

"No," said Sam. "I never did."

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as "Sam and Steve both have nightmares." Then it turned into the obligatory Road Trip Fic; then it was a song fic; then it became sort of a love letter to the small towns and byways of the American Midwest. Like Sam, I don't know how I got here, but I think I'm in the right place.
> 
> There's a playlist, of course. It's more "inspired by" than "music from," but I think it suits the mood. Good late-night driving music. You can [download it here.](https://www.dropbox.com/sh/v5lvodugpjthkck/AADOZqqX6xA9fwf7nRRaZIKJa?dl=0)
> 
>  
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://z-delenda-est.tumblr.com), if you want!


End file.
